


What all Fairy Tales Have In Common

by blueeyesandpie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Castiel is in love, Dean Winchester is Sleeping Beauty, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Sam Winchester feels guilty when he shouldn't, Sleeping Beauty Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 16:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18347531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/pseuds/blueeyesandpie
Summary: Dean is struck by a sleeping curse, and there doesn't appear to be a cure...





	What all Fairy Tales Have In Common

**Author's Note:**

  * For [insominia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/insominia/gifts).



> Beta'd by EmiliaOagi!
> 
> Y'all know how Sleeping Beauty wakes up in the fairy tales. If that plot device bothers you, don't read this fic. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy this angsty romp I wrote for insominia, and let me know what you think!

The hunt was supposed to be little more than a milk run, but then again that’s how all their fucked up stories begin, isn’t it? They really should know better than to assume the best by this point in their career, but somehow they do, again and again, and this time’s no different.

Sam’s angry, so angry; at the hag that put them in this predicament, at Cas for losing his wings, and at Chuck for inventing supernatural creatures as a whole when the world would be much better off without. Mostly he’s angry at himself, lost in a fire storm of self-recrimination that has only compounded since he slid behind Baby’s wheel twelve hours ago.

He should have insisted on better precautions, should have realized they weren’t facing an ordinary witch, should have demanded more research when the lore didn’t quite add up. He should have done  _ something  _ different, even if the others had been impatient to just get it over with. He’s thirty-six for the love of Christ; it’s beyond time to learn to say no, even -no,  _ especially _ \- to Dean.  

Dean. Impulsive Dean, protective Dean, self-sacrificing Dean...ridiculous, foolhardy,  _ dangerous _ Dean. 

Sam slams his palm against the steering wheel and studiously avoids looking in the rear view mirror. He doesn’t have to; he already knows his brother’s head rests on Cas’s thighs, his chest moving only enough for them to know he’s still alive. The last time Sam stopped for gas, Dean’s freckles had stood out like inverted constellations against increasingly pale skin; Sam doesn’t want to think of how that’s changed in the last four hours. 

Sam’s eyes drift to the mirror despite his best effort. Castiel’s head is bowed and his shoulders hunched as he murmurs endless, desperate Enochian under his breath. The syllables are punched out one at a time, ragged and forceful, cracking between thunderous bass and pitchy soprano from one second to the next. It’s like he’s forgotten how to speak with his human vessel entirely, like he’s speaking through a galaxy of grief that Sam can’t begin to comprehend.

Sam has never seen the angel cry, and he’s not prepared to witness it now. Not when his own throat feels tight and thick with fear, when his eyes are heavy with the need for sleep and his body aches from being crammed into a car after being beaten to a pulp. He has to keep it together, however. He has to keep going long enough to get them to the Bunker, to Rowena, to someone, anyone,  _ anything  _ that might help Dean. 

“No luck?” Sam tries to ask, then has to clear his throat and try again, because his voice breaks before the words even exit his mouth. 

Castiel doesn’t respond, but his shoulders jerk and light flares in the mirror, impossibly bright for the brief moments it exists. Then it fades and Cas swears, an incoherent jumble of heresy in languages both current and long forgotten. 

The angel’s fist slams against the window next to his head so hard the glass cracks on impact and Sam’s first thought is  _ fuck, Dean’s gonna be pissed _ . Then he remembers his brother may never see the damage. 

Sam mashes his foot against the gas pedal until it’s flush with the floor. 

\---

Rowena tries only one spell before hastily quenching her candles and dousing the chalice in water. “Ach, I’m sorry, my darlings. It’s draining his life, and the poor wee man has little enough as it is,” she explains when the angel and the hunter give her twin accusatory glares. 

She stays for a while after, patting Dean’s knee as she shares what lore she knows. It seems there’s a variety of hags, and what kills one might strengthen another, and cause the victim of a third to shrivel and die. Dean’s life depends on them pinpointing the specific origins of this particular monster, and there’s very little to guide them.

\---

Days fade into nights fade into days fade into a week or more of waiting. Cas finally puts his fingers to Sam’s forehead and forces the human to sleep despite his adamant objections. He carries Sam to his room and lays him on the bed, then returns to sit by Dean.

Cas doesn’t read, or watch TV, or even pace. In the greater playing field of the angel’s life, this time is little more than a moment of inconvenience, and thus he needs no distraction from his vigil.

In Castiel’s immediate experience, the hours until Sam wakes up are an eternity of hell.

When Sam stumbles back into Dean’s room with wrinkled clothes, the folds of his sheet imprinted on his cheek, he’s so angry the air palpably crackles. His knuckles are white around the edges of his latest book of lore and his breath is fast and uneven as if he’s on the brink of speech with every exhale, but for hours he won’t even look at Cas.

When Sam does finally speak, his voice crackles and blurs with emotion, shoulders shaking and chest heaving as he struggles to maintain some semblance of self control. He gets two sentences into his latest theory before the levee breaks. 

Sam’s rage bleeds into every shouted accusation; Castiel stares at his own hands, fingers interlocked in his lap, and lets the words wash over him like a cleansing tide. He knows what Sam is really angry at, even if Sam doesn’t.

Cas feels no regret; the Hunter needed the rest.

\---

There’s only so much grief a human can take before their heart and brain start healing themselves of their own volition, no matter how great the loss they’ve suffered. God designed the human race to be as infinitely resilient as they are malleable, after all, and they have no choice but to live up to their nature.

Cas knows this truth in theory. He even helps the process along for his friend, in whatever subtle ways he can manage, because Sam’s grief is boundless and terrible. Cas can at least give him the gift of peace, even if he can’t bring Dean back. 

Even knowing that, however, the pain Cas feels the first time Sam goes to the kitchen to get coffee before checking on Dean in the morning is beyond imagining. The angel stares at the mug in Sam’s fist and tries not to think of the last time Dean casually flipped him off, eyes still sleepy and hair a wreck, the fingers of his opposite hand wrapped around that very dish. 

It’s been nearly a month and they’re no closer to a lead.

\---

Castiel doesn’t remember the last time he left the Bunker. He marks time only by Sam’s irregular appearances. The Hunter is increasingly tired, bloody, bruised, and wild-eyed as he talks about whatever creatures he demolished on this hunt or that. His big hands flex in thin air, as if unconsciously searching for something he’s missing, and he hasn’t shaved since Dean fell.

Castiel makes the mistake of touching Sam exactly once. A punch can’t truly damage him, but a fist to the face still hurts; from that point on he carefully avoids all contact as he heals his friend, feeds him, and forces him to sleep. 

He knows Sam will forgive him. He might even forgive himself for failing Dean someday, though that’s more debatable.

Cas looks up from his latest book and realizes he’s alone again. It’s a passing thought; then it’s gone and he’s buried in research once more. 

In the ensuing weeks, Castiel reads every single scrap of applicable lore in the Bunker multiple times over, scavenges the internet for leads every day, talks to every witch and shaman he can locate, and reaches out to his remaining brothers and sisters in ineffectual desperation.

He even summons a demon, staring at the creature’s grotesque true form in morbid fascination for long moments before making his inquiry. The exchange leads to nothing save a pile of ash and the stench of sulfur.

That night Cas picks up a book of children’s fables. He settles on the edge of the bed with distinct care, one leg hooked up beneath him and the other dangling to the floor as he looks at Dean. “I miss you,” he tells his human as he runs his finger over the gold-edged pages in his lap. “I don’t know how to help you, but I can’t give up.”

He talks to Dean all the time, but this feels more intimate, somehow. This time he’s not masking his feelings with discussion of a case, or research, or someone else’s problems. There’s no more business to discuss at all, in fact, no reason to maintain the mask he’s had in place for over a decade. 

All that’s left to consider is the bond built between them, a connection so fierce it tied a soldier of God to the plight of mankind in every conceivable way. 

Castiel exhales softly, eyes closed, then opens the book to the first story.

He reads aloud for hours, voice gentle and steady.  _ The Frog Prince. Cat and Mouse in Partnership. Mary’s Child _ ...onward, every word carefully pronounced, every page turned with the same care as the one before.  _ Hansel and Gretel  _ gets his full attention, but the old woman in that tale is clearly a witch and nothing more. He moves on with the barest huff of disappointment.

He describes the illustrations when he runs across them. He tells Dean what he thinks of each story as he finishes it, talks about the probable origins for some of them, how oddly humanity has changed the stories over the centuries since their inception. Dean never wakes and he doesn’t need to sleep, so there’s no real reason to be concise in his analysis.

He soon realizes that there are repeating themes in every tale. Good is rewarded, evil is punished.  _ Love _ threads through every single one, in one form or another: a child’s love for their parent, a parent’s love for their child. Sibling love, love between friends... _ true  _ love. Love conquers every barricade, the stories tell him again and again. Love is the greatest power in the universe.

He finishes reading  _ Sleeping Beauty _ and sets the book aside, studying Dean’s face thoughtfully.

“What’s the one thing all hags have in common?” He asks as his fingers trace the Hunter’s jawline. He pauses only a moment before supplying the answer. “They're in these legends I’ve been reading, what you humans call fairy tales.” The specific details changed from country to country, but one thing stayed true: No matter what these creatures ate or what tool was used to kill them, the actual force behind their defeat was always  _ love _ . Gretel’s love for her brother. Rapunzel’s love for her child. The prince’s love for Snow White or Briar Rose. 

Cas licks his lips, glancing around with furtive unease as he contemplates his next move. He knows Dean doesn’t feel the same way for him that he feels for Dean, is unsure what  _ Dean _ would think of this unorthodox attempt to break the curse. 

“I don’t know if this works in the modern world at all, let alone if the feelings are one-sided,” he confesses, vaguely aware that he’s sinking closer to Dean’s face despite his doubts. “I have to try though. I love you too much to let you die.”

His breath gets faster as his nose brushes against Dean’s, the air crackling with energy pouring from his true form too fast for his vessel to contain. Sam’s anger at being put to sleep will be nothing to Dean’s if he wakes up with Cas’s mouth on his. Cas knows this. He knows this, and he’s accepted himself as collateral damage before he’s even made the move. Dean’s life is worth it.

“I’m sorry….I’m so sorry.” 

His lips brush Dean’s in a chaste kiss, soft and small, barely there. Sparks arc between them and Castiel’s chest does a painful triple-pulse. He presses down again instinctively, this time firm and demanding. His grace extols the union, crackling energy declaring  _ this is my human, you will not touch him _ . 

He’s barely aware of any of this, however, because suddenly there’s an arm around his waist and fingers sliding into his hair, a mouth moving against his own... _ parting _ for him and how can that even be? He feels Dean’s tongue slip out to trace the outline of his lips and the arm around his waist tightens, manhandling him further onto the bed. The pressure doesn’t stop until Cas’s full weight rests across Dean’s body.

Dean’s mouth shifts, hot kisses drifting up the underside of Cas’s jaw to settle beneath his ear, licking and sucking there so long that Cas is sure Dean’s trying to bruise the unbruisable.  It’s too much, far too much, yet not enough. Cas tilts his head to the side with a groan, his vessel and true form sparking and squirming in unison from the assault on his very core. 

Sense returns reluctantly. 

“Dean,” Cas growls, his hands pushing at the Hunter’s shoulders. He doesn’t want to stop; his head is spinning and his vessel is ablaze with unfamiliar heat. He could explore these feelings until the Earth returns to star stuff and still not have enough of it.

They need to talk though. He needs to  _ understand _ . He needs to know Dean is okay, in more ways than one.

They part long enough for Cas to catch a glimpse of burning green eyes before Dean’s lips lock on his again in a desperate frenzy. The human slides one arm around his shoulders to pull him near while the other tugs Cas’s shirt out of his pants. His fingers brush bare skin and Castiel gasps for breath, suddenly so close to losing any semblance of control that he’s actually frightened.

“ _ Dean! _ ” 

Dean pulls away with a frustrated sound. When Castiel collects himself enough to look down, the Hunter is sprawled across the pillow with a familiar smirk on his face, lips red and spit-slick, eyes glowing impossibly green in the light of the single lamp. 

“How long have you been conscious?” Castiel needs to know, is desperate for answers he’s afraid to hear.

Dean hesitates, wetting lips that don’t need it as his eyes slide around for a distraction. Sam’s in Arizona and Cas hasn’t seen or heard from Jack or the other Hunters in a month or more. There’s no one to rescue Dean from the truth of this moment, and Cas is simultaneously pleased and overwhelmed by the possibilities that solitude presents.

Eventually Dean relaxes, though his arm remains locked around Cas’s shoulder. “For as much as I could force myself to be,” he says finally. “I had to sleep sometimes. Laying there with my eyes shut got real boring, real fast.”

“You were awake.” Cas can’t help it; he touches Dean’s face, traces the familiar lines of forehead, cheeks, jaw, nose, and lips with trembling fingers. There’s color in his skin again, Cas notices. “The- the  _ whole time _ ?” 

He remembers frantic prayers, endless tears, frustrated declarations of how much he loves the human beneath him and how Cas cannot disappoint him  _ again.  _ Cas is rigid in his disbelief and humiliation. 

“As much as any human would be, yeah.” Dean shifts beneath him. “I’m an idiot, Cas,” the human says. “You said you loved me, but I didn’t- didn’t  _ know _ .” Overwhelming joy fights for precedence with Cas’s shame. It blooms with fierce interest when Dean reaches up, cupping his face in one palm. 

“I am- humans are-” The angel tries to pull away, but Dean’s grip tightens, pulling him back. 

“Shut up, Cas. I love you, too.” It’s so stark, so clear, so completely unexpected. Cas doesn’t need to breathe, but air sticks in his throat anyway as he gapes at the Hunter in stark disbelief.

The angel surges forward, once again laying his claim on Dean, on  _ his human,  _ the man who taught him to love and be loved. He does nothing to drown out Dean’s declarations of love, or the profanity and sacrilege the hunter cries into the silence of the bunker as Cas explores every inch of what is unquestionably and forever  _ his _ . It’s the best prayer the angel’s ever received and he does his best to ensure it lasts a while.

Every glass in the room shatters when Dean returns the favor after, but neither of them notice until much later.

  
\---

“.....You’re telling me  _ true love’s kiss  _ broke the spell?”

Sam’s sprawled across a chair in the Library. His arms are crossed over the back and his chin rests on the backs of his hands as he stares at his brother and Castiel in equal parts incredulous shock and amusement. He looks exhausted and a little suspicious, but there’s warmth in his eyes and they’re twinkling in a way Castiel hasn’t seen in months. 

“Something like that,” Dean mutters, turning his beer bottle between his palms and refusing to look at either of them.

“Something  _ exactly  _ like that,” Cas says, arching an eyebrow as he stares at his lover. 

“It was a curse, arright? Not like I have any control over how it was made or what breaks it,” Dean grumbles. 

“Okay, okay Princess Aurora, don’t get your panties in a twist.” Sam holds both hands up, palms out, and Dean flips him off. Castiel leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, listening to the siblings pick on each other with a smile on his face and contentment in his bones.

_ Is this what happily ever after feels like? _

A few minutes later, Dean leans over to press a gentle kiss against Cas’s lips before he passes into the kitchen, and Cas stares after him just long enough for Sam to tease him about having cow eyes. 

_ Yes. The answer is yes. _


End file.
